


Beauty and The Beast

by misslucyjane



Category: Fairy Tales and Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M, Minor Character Death, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-22
Updated: 2009-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:37:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslucyjane/pseuds/misslucyjane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who is the mysterious creature who lives behind the high walls of Messenger Manor? Dean Winchester, an apprentice hunter, is determined to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beauty and The Beast

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the DeanCastiel AR/Fusion Challenge, prompt #29: "SPN/Beauty and the Beast: Would prefer Castiel to be the 'Beast'. Slash, please." 
> 
> Thanks to Skidmo for beta. 
> 
> The Beast's appearance is inspired by [this fanart](http://community.livejournal.com/deancastiel/1013231.html) by Gembat.

There was once a world full of magic and wonder. It was a world of great beauty, but also of great horror, because wherever there is power there are also those willing to use it and be corrupted by it. To protect ordinary people from malevolent magical beings, there came to be a guild of hunters. Hunters studied magic, languages, history, weaponry and religion. Many hunters thought this education prepared them to deal with any sort of creature that might cross their path.

This was not always true.

One of these hunters was a man named John Winchester, who had two sons. The younger was named Sam and the elder was named Dean. Their mother had died when they were quite young, and so John had trained them since they could walk to follow in his footsteps. Sam took to it like breathing, but Dean always felt he had another purpose in life. He had no idea how to discover this other purpose, however. And so he traveled with his father and his brother, fought evil and looked at the horizon as if something were waiting for him just beyond.

The family crisscrossed the vast and wild country many times and rarely encountered problems in the same town twice. Some towns were large and civilized, and some were small, hardly bigger than a watering trough and a pub. Whenever the Winchesters came to a new town, the first thing they did was visit the local public house. Pubs took the place of the post office, sheriff's office, wise woman's office, newspaper, all the places you would find in more populated areas, and only slightly less central to every town than the church. Since most preachers regarded hunters with suspicion if not outright hostility, pubs were better sources for information.

They were recognized as hunters at once, what with John's official Hunter’s Guild medallion pinned to his coat and the look all three of them had -- even Sam, who to Dean was still just a lanky fourteen-year-old growing too fast for his clothes to keep up, looked like he could hold his own in a fight. According to the placard that hung from the pub's sign, the owner was named Bill Harvelle, and the gentleman himself came out from behind the bar to greet them. He and John shook hands heartily. "Ellen," he said to his wife, "beer and stew for these men. Joanna," he said to his daughter, "let people know hunters are here." His daughter hurried off obediently, giving the Winchesters a curious look as she passed. "Ash, see to their horses," he said and the hired boy ran outside to attend to them. Mrs. Harvelle dished up their suppers as John took off his overcoat and all three got comfortable at a table near the stone fireplace.

"So," said Bill, pulling over a chair for himself. "Are you hunting something in particular, or are you passing through?"

"We're passing through," said John. "Are there troubles we should know about?"

"No demon sign," said Harvelle, and rose to help his wife bring over bowls of stew and plates of freshly-baked bread and new butter. The boys thanked them politely, as they'd been taught, and this made Ellen smile with approval at them. "We do have a mystery, but I don't know if it falls under the bailiwick of hunters."

"We'll hear the story," said John and picked up his spoon to eat.

As they ate, Dean noticed people trickling into the pub: a staid-looking gentleman with a look of authority, store owners in their aprons and shirtsleeves, the school mistress, the town's wise woman, even the preacher. Dean muttered to Sam, "I think they haven't had hunters here for a long time."  
"I hope Father will let us come with him on the job," Sam whispered back. "I'm tired of being left behind."

Dean shrugged at that. It took a lot of time and training to qualify as a hunter. Some apprentice hunters didn't earn the title of master until they were well into their thirties, if they lived that long. If Dean achieved his mastery in the next five years, he would still be one of the youngest hunters alive.

The townspeople waited for them to finish eating and for John to push back from the table. "I heard there was a mystery," he said, addressing the question to the company in general, and Sam got out a notebook to write down what they were told.

"Robert Singer," said one of the older men. "I'm the town steward. If you came in on the north road you might have noticed a house -- a manor, surrounded by a high brick wall. That's our mystery."

"Is it haunted?" said John.

Several people exchanged glances. "We're not certain," said Mr. Singer. "No one has gone into the manor for several years, and as far as we know, no one has left it for just as long."

"Best tell me this from the beginning," said John.

"The manor belonged to a family called the Messengers," said Mr. Harvelle. "They've owned half the businesses in town and acres of land surrounding it since time out of mind. They were good people, too, given to philanthropic works -- they created the Messenger Library, the Messenger School, the Messenger Public Park. They even donated the statue in the town square. And then there was the last generation, Zachariah Messenger and his wife, Anna." There was a pause as again the glance traveled from person to person. "They had a son. They gave him the strangest name -- Castiel."

"Castiel," said John. "That's an angel's name."

"That's probably what they wanted for him."

Mr. Singer added in a growl, "That's not what they got."

"Don't speak ill of the dead," said Mr. Harvelle, in the tired tone that said this was an old argument.

"They need to know the truth. Castiel Messenger was a vain, arrogant, self-absorbed bas --" Mr. Singer stopped himself and looked apologetically at the ladies, though only the schoolmistress had dropped her eyes. The other women just looked amused. "Boy," he finished.

"He raised some hell when his parents where alive," said Mr. Harvelle. "It was even worse after they passed. Gambling, drink, parties that lasted for days at the manor with people of questionable character from who-knows-where . . . most of the property his parents had left him had to be sold to pay his debts."

"The Messengers died in a flash flood about ten years ago," said Mrs. Harvelle. "About five years after, something happened at the manor that no one can explain." She paused and her husband reached back to take her hand, which had been resting on his shoulder. "Walls," she said. "Overnight, all around the manor's lands. No local workmen were hired --"

"No workmen of this Earth could work that fast," said Mr. Singer.

"But the walls were built, and no one has seen Castiel Messenger since. Men have gone to the manor and tried to climb the walls, and when they returned they could tell us nothing of what they found." Mrs. Harvelle stopped and Mr. Harvelle squeezed her hand. "It was as if they had forgotten even why they'd gone."

"The only thing we've heard," said Mr. Harvelle, "is a black coach during the night sometimes. No one has seen a passenger inside or driver outside."

"We tend keep to our doors locked and our windows shuttered when we hear it," added Mrs. Harvelle.

John frowned, thoughtful, and leaned his chin on his hands, his forefingers to his lips. "So either the boy is possessed and the manor has been taken over by demons, or the boy is dead and the manor is haunted."

"It could be something else entirely," Dean said to him softly. "There's been no demon sign, Mr. Harvelle said."

"The simplest explanation is usually the right one, Dean," John said, just as softly. "If we find evidence of something else, we'll have a better idea, but for now I think demon or ghost. I'll go out tonight," he said to the townspeople. "I'll have a look around and get a better idea of what we're dealing with."

There was a collective sigh of relief, and several men came over to shake their hands. John accepted their effusive thanks grimly -- he was not, in general, warm -- and quietly asked Mr. Harvelle for a room for him and his sons.

"So when are we going?" said Dean when they were alone.

"We are not," said John as he packed up a bag with salt rounds and holy water. "I'm going alone. It's just a fact-finding mission. I’ll be back before morning." He looked at the boys, one to the other, and said to Dean, "Look after your brother," as he shouldered his shotgun.

"Yes, sir," Dean muttered and made a simple protection spell on the door after John shut it.

Sam sighed, sounding just as frustrated as Dean felt. "Poker?" he said, taking a deck of cards out of his bag.

"Sure," said Dean, and they sat cross-legged on the bed to play, using bullets for chips.

***

Dean woke with the sun. He saw Sam asleep in one bed, but the other bed was empty. Dean dressed hastily and went down to the main room of the pub. Joanna Harvelle, her shining hair tied back from her face, was building the morning fire, but stopped when she saw him. "My mother is making breakfast," she said, hands twisting together nervously.

"Thanks," Dean said. "Have you seen my father? His bed hasn't been slept in."

"I haven't. I could ask Ash if he bedded down his horse last night." She paused. "Your animals are beautiful."

"Thanks," Dean said again and returned her tiny smile. Girls tended to like hunters, even hunters in training, but Dean had found that while he enjoyed when they smiled and flirted with him, they tended to want more than just a smile. Sam was young enough not to have these concerns yet, but Dean was almost a man, and he knew his father was starting to wonder why he hadn't brought a single sweetheart to meet the family. "I'll find Ash. You're busy." He ducked out of the pub -- these old building were made for shorter men -- and found the stables.

Ash had not seen his father since the night before and wanted to talk to Dean about how to become a hunter. He was disappointed when Dean said the training started in childhood and that he was still an apprentice.

Dean went back into the pub and found Sam at a table, a book propped open in front of him as he ate porridge and toast. Dean didn't disturb him since he was studying and just sat opposite him at the table. He thanked Mrs. Harvelle for the food when she brought his breakfast out.

"No sign of Father," he said when Sam finally closed the book and put it aside. "We should go out to the manor and have a look."

"Father said we should stay here," Sam pointed out. "We're not qualified to hunt on our own yet."

"It won't be hunting," Dean said. "It'll just be looking around."

"And what will Father say when he comes back and finds us gone?" He looked triumphant and Dean wanted to flip a spoonful of porridge at him.

"Fine, here we stay."

He supposed he should study, since they had the time, but he couldn't keep his mind focused on his books. Sam tried to quiz him on exorcisms but gave up when Dean couldn't remember past Spiritus mundi. "You're hopeless," Sam said and Dean said, "I'm going exploring," and escaped.

The town would not pay the hunter's fee if there was no evidence of a hunt, but Dean was not worried about money: John left Dean in charge of their cash in case anything happened to him while they were separated, and he knew he had more than enough to cover their bill. He was more worried about his father. If it were a simple fact-finding mission, why hadn't he returned before sunup, as he expected?

Dean walked from the pub to the town square. He got a drink from the well and sat on the edge of the fountain for a while, to watch people come to fill their buckets or splash their faces.

It wasn't long before Joanna Harvelle came to the well, bearing two buckets to fill for the pub, and Dean stood to help her. "Your father hasn't returned yet," she told him. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not worried yet," Dean lied, and took both the buckets to carry them back for her. It did not escape his notice that Joanna walked back a little more slowly than she'd walked to the well.

"It must be an exciting life, hunting," she said. "Traveling all the time, meeting so many new people . . ."

"It's all right. Sometimes I wish we could stay put for a while."

"Doesn't your mother miss you?"

Dean tightened his fingers on the bucket handles. "She died."

"I'm sorry," Joanna murmured, dropping her head. "Was it . . . recently?"

"Fourteen years," Dean said, though he knew the exact day, the exact minute. "Sam was just a baby."

"You must miss her very much."

"Every day." He followed her into the kitchen with the water and poured it into the cistern for her. It sounded full already, but he supposed if she wanted a reason to get out of the kitchen going to the well was as good a reason as any.

"Thank you for helping me," Joanna said.

"You're welcome," said Dean, and they looked at each other. Dean knew, objectively, that she was pretty -- and she was about his age, maybe a year or two younger -- and she was the kind of girl his father wished he would court -- but he didn't know what to say to her to even start a courtship.

Joanna was about to speak when they heard footsteps pounding up the stairs from outside and Ash stopped in the doorway. "Master Winchester, I've been looking everywhere for you! Your father's horse has come back."

"Just the horse? Where's my father?"

"I don't know, Master Winchester."

"I'll get your brother," said Joanna and sprang up the steps to the rooms. Dean followed Ash out to the stable -- sure enough, there was Creedence, his glossy black coat damp with sweat and splashed with mud. Dean put his hand on his muzzle and rubbed his jaw a moment before carefully taking off his bridle. He chuckled when Creedence nudged his shoulder with a soft whinny.

"I don't think he's been fed or brushed," he said and felt tears sting his eyes at the implication. His father would never let Creedence suffer, not willingly.

"We'll look after him," said Ash with surprising gentleness.

Sam burst into the stable and gasped when he saw Creedence. "Where's Father, Dean?" he wailed. "What's happened to him?"

"He's just delayed, Sammy," Dean said. "Don't be afraid."

Joanna had followed Sam, and put her arm around his shoulders now. She had to reach up to do it and it struck Dean, as it did every time he looked at his brother now, how tall Sam was getting. "Come back to the kitchen with me, Sam," she said. "Help me, um, help me knead some bread. Come on, Sam."

He gave Dean a despairing look, and then nodded and went glumly back into the pub.

***

It was a somber supper that night, even though the Harvelles invited the boys to eat with them as a family. Sam could hardly lift his head without tears starting to fall again, and Dean didn't know how to comfort him in front of all these strangers, no matter how kind they were. He supposed the others thought they should be used to their father not returning right away, but the truth was, John always came back when he said he would. Always.

And it had just been a fact-finding mission. Not even a real hunt.

Sam went to bed right after supper, too unhappy to do anything more than sleep, but Dean felt too restless to sleep. When Mrs. Harvelle asked him to help her wind yarn, he said yes. At least it gave him something to do: he held the unwound skein as she wound it into a ball, and Joanna read to them from a book of poetry while Mr. Harvelle listened with his eyes closed.

They all started up when they heard the thundering sound of an approaching coach. Dean yanked the yarn off his hands and ran out into the street to meet it, dodging aside at the last moment when the great black coach nearly ran him down.

It screeched to a stop in front of the pub and the door swung open, and out came John. "Father!" Dean cried, unable to help himself, and John wrapped his arms around him tighter than he had hugged Dean for many months. "I was afraid you weren't coming back."

"We'll talk about that later," said John. "Where's Sam?"

"Inside, asleep." He followed John into the pub. The Harvelles were waiting, Mrs. Harvelle's hands clasping each other tightly, and she breathed, "Oh, thank God," when she saw John. Mr. Harvelle closed the door and Dean glanced back at the coach, wondering why no one had asked the driver inside.

He felt a chill when he saw there was no driver, and as he watched the coach slowly turned and clattered back up the road from whence it came.

Mrs. Harvelle poured a cup of hot coffee for John, which he drank gratefully. "Did you see him? Castiel Messenger -- is he alive?" she said, anxious.

John shook his head. "I saw only one -- creature. He is no demon and no ghost. I'm not sure what he was. The manor is not haunted but it was a strange place, the strangest I have ever seen."

Sam ran down the stairs, stopped at the bottom, and then threw himself at his father. John held him and patted his back. "I'm all right, son," he said gently. "I'm just fine."

"Don't leave us again, Father."

John sighed and patted Sam's hair, and said to the Harvelles, "I would like to be alone with my sons. All I can say is that you have nothing to fear from the manor, so long as it is left alone. Let the people know, they must simply stay away."

Alone in their room, Dean said, "What really happened? Creedence came back without you and I thought --"

"I'm leaving again in the morning," said John and Sam looked like he was about to weep again. John held him closer a moment. "He only allowed me to come back to say goodbye to my children."

Dean felt like he couldn't breathe. "What are you talking about? Who's at that manor?"

"A creature," John said. "A very powerful, very angry creature. The coach is coming before sunrise to take me back and I must stay for the rest of my life."

"But why?" said Sam, miserable, and Dean gave him a handkerchief to wipe his nose. "Why can't you stay with us?"

John sighed. "I climbed the walls of the estate and broke into the manor. I saw no one, no servants, no master. I did find food freshly prepared and a great fire burning in a vast dining room, and I ate my fill. When I looked around the manor, trying to find Castiel Messenger, I found an amulet like the one you lost, Dean, do you remember?"

"I do," Dean said. It had been just a little head on a leather cord, made from a red stone none of them knew, and Dean had loved it. He wore it always until some monster or another clawed it from his neck.

"I thought, since the manor was empty, that I would bring it back for you." He stopped and sighed heavily. "And that's when I met the Beast." He swallowed.

"Father," Sam whimpered.

"I violated his hospitality," John said gently. "It was generous of him to let me come back and say goodbye. I don't expect any further generosity. Dean," he said more firmly, "you're a man now. You're in charge of your brother. Go to Preacher Jim to finish your apprenticeship. He'll train you well."

"Father, I won't let you do this," said Dean, his eyes wet.

John got to his feet and said sternly, "It is not your choice. This Beast is powerful enough to build walls around the Messenger property overnight, powerful enough to command invisible servants. God only knows what else he can do."

"But Father --"

"You have enough money to get back to Preacher Jim. Study hard. Work hard. Do me proud."

"Yes, sir," Dean said, filled with despair.

***

None of them could sleep at first. 

Dean wished he and Sam were still small enough to sleep in the same bed without people looking at them askance -- he longed for the comfort of a familiar body tonight. He smiled a little to himself. Joanna Harvelle would be willing to warm him, but as pretty as she was the thought had no appeal. He was not his father's son that way.

Sam didn't stop sniffling until Dean ordered, "Sam, quit crying and go to sleep." John stirred and Dean expected to be scolded, but John merely shifted his bed, making the wood frame creak.

Dean found it no easier to sleep when Sam was quiet than he had before. He watched the window and wished he were young enough to cry himself to sleep too. It felt too big, too much -- John just expected him to step into his place, as if he were trained, as if he were ready.

But he wasn't ready. He was a few months shy of his nineteenth birthday, he was an apprentice hunter, and he had never performed a hunt on his own. He couldn't even remember a basic exorcism spell without prompting.

Slowly Dean sat up, trying not to make any unnecessary noise. He couldn't take his father's place out in the world, no -- but he could in the manor. It would be better if John continued training Sam, if John saved the lives he was meant to save, rather than rot in a prison as the captive of a beast.

Sam would be the best hunter of his generation under John's tutelage, and Dean would placate the beast.

It was almost sunup. Dean got out of bed and dressed, packed his meager belongings and put their money in Sam's bag. He went to Sam's bed and lightly touched Sam's head to say goodbye. He looked at his father but didn't dare approach him -- John woke too easily even on the most peaceful of nights.

He slipped out of the room, and cast a spell on the door to lock them in until someone came to let them out. He knelt on the steps and wrote a quick note, explaining, apologizing, telling them not to fear for him. "It's better this way," he wrote. "I love you both with all my heart. Go, go away fast and far, and don't return."

He slipped the note under the door and wrote another for the Harvelles, telling them what he planned to do and asking that they release his family as soon as they were awake. This note he left in the pub's kitchen, though he suspected someone would hear John pounding on the door long before they began cooking breakfast.

And then Dean went down to the front steps of the pub to wait.

The night was nearly over, he knew, but still time seemed to crawl until the sky began to turn grey and he heard the thunderous clatter of the black coach. Dean's heart began to pound and he steeled himself with a stern, "You can't back down now," muttered under his breath.

The black coach came to a stop slowly in front of him, drawn by an enormous black horse, even bigger and blacker than Creedence. As before, there was no driver in the driver's seat and no passenger within. Dean said, "I'm Dean Winchester. I'm John Winchester's oldest son." He took a deep breath. 

The coach didn't move. 

Dean said, "I have come to take my father's place with your master. I do this of my own free will."

A moment more passed, and then, slowly, the door to the coach swung open and its steps descended. Dean climbed into the coach and put his bag on the seat, leaned back and tried not to jump when the steps folded themselves up and the door slammed shut. The coach leapt into motion, driving so fast that Dean had to brace himself against the roof and floor to keep from being thrown around the compartment.

He tried to watch the passing scenery but it was only a dark blur, though he could smell when they left the town and got out into the country. At one point they clattered over a bridge and Dean felt a shudder, suspecting it was the one where Castiel Messenger's parents had died.

Gradually the light grew from grey to pink and then gold, and the sun had fully risen when the coach finally approached the tall, ivy-and-thorn-covered walls that could only be the former Messenger property. A great set of gates opened before them, just as ivy-covered as the rest of the walls, and then slammed shut behind them. Dean peered out the window and could see no sign of a gatekeeper.

The coach took the drive from the gate more slowly than the rest of the journey, and finally came to a stop at the front steps. The door swung open, again with no sign of a footman, and Dean grabbed his bag and climbed down. The manor was pale brown stone supported by darker wood beams, and while it didn't look as broken-down as most abandoned houses Dean had seen, it had an air of desolation that made him shiver. The lawns and hedges, however, were trimmed and shaped, and while there was also ivy crawling up the manor's walls it was not as thick as on the outer walls.

The wooden double doors at the top of the steps swung open. Dean looked back at the coach, but it was already rolling away to the stables. Of course, there were no answers to be found with the coach, and Dean could only hope there would be some inside.

He climbed the white stone steps and went in through the doors into a great hall. There was a staircase at the opposite end and doors all along the hall, interspersed with paintings or small statues in niches. 

It was utterly silent.

Dean walked slowly down the hall and called, "Hello? Is anyone here?" He gasped when one of the doors slowly opened. He swallowed hard and resettled his bag on his shoulder, and went through the door and through the passageway behind it.

The passage opened to a dark room with thick curtains drawn over the windows, its only source of light a small fire crackling in a fireplace. At the edge of that small light a dark shape sat hunched in a chair. The creature wore a black cloak with the hood drawn low over his head, hiding his face, and his hands, gloved in black leather, rested on top of a wood cane.

Dean took a few steps into the room and then stopped. He didn't know what to do or say, and the being was so still he might have been asleep.

He started when the being spoke. "You are not John Winchester." His voice was low and gravelly, as if each word cost great pain to speak.

"I'm his son," said Dean. "His oldest son. Are you the master of this house?"

"I am."

"Then I'm your prisoner," Dean said. "I have a little brother and he needs his father, while I'm . . ." He swallowed. "Older. So I came instead."

"Your father sent you," said the being.

"It was my idea. He may know I'm gone by now." Dean swallowed again.

"He did not coerce you or force you."

"No, sir."

The creature was silent. The fire crackled. Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Finally the creature said, "Very well. You will be given a room of your own. You may eat when you're hungry and rest when you're tired. You may go through any door that opens for you. Do not go through any that remain closed."

"Yes, sir," Dean said, confused. It didn't sound much like an imprisonment to him.

"And you may not leave the manor property."

That was more like what he expected. "Yes, sir," he said softly. 

The creature moved at last, leaning back in his armchair as if to look at Dean fully for the first time. Not only did the cloak cover his face but he wore a mask as well, and his eyes were in shadow. There was a long silence while Dean felt he was being scrutinized from head to toe.

"What is your name?" the being said at last.

"Dean. Dean Winchester." Dean hesitated. "What do I call you?"

The creature was silent for a long while. "You may call me Beast."

Dean said, "Yes, sir," and scuffed the toe of his boot on the floor.

"You may go," the Beast said.

"And do what?"

The Beast regarded him. "Read a book," he said. "Take a walk. Breakfast will be ready by nine o'clock, fresh clothes for you by tonight."

"Yes, sir," Dean said, confused again. "So I can go anywhere as long as I stay on the estate, and I can do anything I want as long as I don't go through any locked doors, is what you're saying."

"Yes."

"Why? I thought I was coming here to be your prisoner. My father was going to be your prisoner."

"Your father," the Beast said with difficulty, "would have been treated the same. I do not have a dungeon here. I merely --" One of his legs jerked and he said, "It is none of your concern. Go."

Dean looked at him, still confused. "Yes, sir." He left the study and went back into the main hall. 

Read a book? Go for a walk? He sighed and walked slowly up the stairs, supposing he had permission to explore a little. The stairs were carpeted with in rich deep red, and the carpet continued through the upper gallery. Dean looked at the paintings as he went, but they gave him no clues about what might have happened to Castiel Messenger. They were just family portraits, some from centuries ago, or pretty landscapes, some of the manor, some of other houses he supposed were back wherever the family had come from.

One of the doors swung open as he walked past, so Dean looked in. it was just a bedroom, bigger than any room he'd slept in before in his life, with a curtained bed and an open wardrobe and other furniture he didn't know the names of or purpose for.

This, he supposed, was his.

He went into the room and put down his bag, and looked over his shoulder as the door shut behind him. "Okay," Dean muttered and set about unpacking his belongings. There wasn't much: a few changes of clothes, another pair of boots, a few books, his journal filled with jotted notes and spells. He put his clothes in the wardrobe and his books in the bookcase, and then sat on the bed and wondered what to do now.

He hadn't heard the door lock, so he got up and tried the knob. It turned in his hand, which he didn't expect, but he opened the door and went out into the gallery again.

No other doors opened for him upstairs, nor on the third floor, but when he returned to the first floor one after the other did, leading him to a library, a music room, a conservatory that was half-glass and filled with flowers, and finally a dining room. The long table was ready for a feast, dishes of fruit and sausage and rolls and toast and coffee and juice, and that was only what wasn't under covered trays. There was only one place set, and Dean supposed it was for him.

Dean sat and poured himself some coffee. He ate a strip of bacon. It was delicious, thick and smoky-flavored. The butter was new, the toast had a sweet vanilla taste to it, there was cinnamon and brown sugar for oatmeal, and before Dean knew it he'd filled his belly to its capacity. He pushed back from the table and sipped his coffee slowly, enjoying the unfamiliar feel of a relaxing breakfast and a full stomach.

Sam would polish off the rest of this, Dean thought, he was growing so fast he ate enough for two or three at every meal. Dean put down the coffee cup and left the table, and his throat hurt with missing his brother.

He left the manor house and walked the length of the avenue from the manor to the gates. The gatehouse was empty, and of course the massive doors didn't swing open for him. He walked back.

By the time darkness fell, Dean had discovered the gardens, the gazebo, the kitchen garden, and a grove of oak trees that felt ancient and quiet as a church. He walked back to the house, finally hungry after his enormous breakfast, and smelled roast beef the moment he stepped inside. He grinned and hurried to the dining room.

Again the table was set with food for twenty people but only one plate. He took the plate and filled it with beef and potatoes and vegetables and a thick slice of triple-layer chocolate cake, and poured himself a glass of red wine.

He nearly dropped it all when he saw the Beast sitting in the chair opposite his. "Oh!" he said, and then felt foolish. "I didn't know if I'd see you tonight. Or ever. I thought I'd see you during the day but I didn't and then I thought maybe you'd left …"

"Sit and eat," said the Beast, so Dean did so.

A few bites into his meal he said, "Aren't you eating?"

"No," the Beast said. "I won't eat in front of you."

"Why not? You can't be that hideous." The Beast was silent, and Dean put down his knife and fork. "I'm sorry. That was awful of me."

"You are very young," the Beast said.

"Yes, sir," Dean said and after a moment picked up his fork again and resumed eating.

After a few minutes the Beast began to speak. His voice was low and gruff, but not unpleasant to listen to. He told Dean the story of a god who took on the form of a swan to seduce a woman he loved, and Dean thought the Beast pitched his voice almost as if he were casting a spell.

By the time he reached the end of the tale, with the woman giving birth to the god's children in the form of golden eggs, Dean's plate had long been empty and he'd drained several glasses of wine. "That's . . . that's one hell of a story," Dean said.

"It's very old," said the Beast. "Dean." He raised his head a little, his face still in shadow. "Will you share your bed with me tonight?"

Dean inhaled, feeling the question like a shock to his system. "I -- I -- no," he whispered and bowed his head, expecting the Beast to rage and finally toss him into a locked windowless room.

"Very well," the Beast said, and as Dean looked up, surprised, the Beast rose from his chair and stumped away, leaning heavily on his gnarled cane.

***

When Dean went to bed that night, he did not lock the door. He almost did, but decided it would be interpreted as bad faith and left it simply closed instead.

He slept deeply, and dreamed of a man with wide blue eyes and wild dark hair and a mouth that looked as lush and delicious as sin. In his dream Dean approached him, knowing he would be welcomed as a friend, and the man embraced him and kissed his mouth. "Say yes to me," the man whispered, and he was so beautiful Dean almost did.

***

This was the pattern of his days. In daylight, he explored, rode the great black horse around the estate, walked in the gardens and even pulled weeds sometimes, though as winter grew closer there was less and less to do out there. If it rained he pressed keys on the piano and tried to make music, or read books from the library about countries that were far away or times that were long gone. Meals were abundant and served the moment he thought he was hungry. If he was cold he woke to a fire burning in his fireplace or there would be one kindled in the room where he intended to spend the day. 

The Beast joined him each night at supper and told him a story, and at the end of each story he asked, in a humble tone, "Dean, will you share your bed with me?"

Every night Dean told him no. Every night Dean dreamed of the beautiful man who begged him, "Say yes to me," and every night Dean told him, "I will, when I see you, I will."

***

Many of the doors in the manor remained closed to him. Dean did not try any of the knobs, but he often stood in front of this closed door or that and tried to listen for sounds of what was within. He had begun to suspect the beautiful man was not just a figure of his dreams but someone imprisoned here. He had begun to suspect the man was Castiel Messenger.

He wished Sam and his father were here, so that he had someone to share all of this with. Sam could figure out any mystery with his sharp and curious mind, and his father was tenacious and methodical. That was the worst of his imprisonment, really, that he had no one to talk to except the Beast.

At least the Beast was interesting. He knew so many stories, and he'd seen places Dean had never even heard of. Their talks at supper grew longer and longer, and were soon no longer limited just to the dining room -- they would walk to the library or the study, the Beast leaning on his cane until one night Dean offered his arm, and one story would lead to another until Dean couldn't keep his eyes open a moment longer.

And then came the question. "Dean, will you share your bed with me?"

It became harder and harder to say no.

***

At the first real snow Dean spent all day making snowballs and building a fort. There was no one to have a snowball fight with, but Dean didn't care. The snow was perfect and it was so much fun to just play like he was still a boy. He still missed Sam terribly and wanted to talk to him, but he was happy. He hadn't believed he could be happy here.

The sun set early, turning the sky pink before it sank, and supper was stew to warm him. Dean wrapped himself in a sweater and sat close to the fire to eat, and when the Beast joined him he asked Dean gravely, "With whom are you planning to go to war?"

"Whoever tries to invade us," Dean said cheerfully. "That's what the walls are for, right? To keep out your enemies?" The Beast steepled his fingers and gazed at him. "I mean, why else would you build walls?" Dean said, feeling that he was saying the wrong thing entirely but not sure how to fix it. "To keep people out so that they don't . . . point and laugh."

"Or chase after me with holy water and wooden stakes," the Beast said.

"You're not dangerous." The Beast did not chuckle or even nod. "You're not dangerous to me."

"Very kind of you to notice."

Dean said, no longer joking at all, "I'm not afraid of you, you know. I like you. I like being with you."

The Beast lowered his head and said nothing. Dean rose from the dining table and went to him, and knelt in front of him on the hearth rug. The Beast turned his head away and Dean put his hands on the Beast's knees. "Look at me?" he whispered, and the Beast reluctantly did so. The hood of his cloak was drawn low over his face, as always, but Dean thought he caught a glimpse of blue eyes in the shadow. "Why do you hide yourself away?"

"Because I am hideous," the Beast whispered.

"Was it a fire? Is that why you limp? You were injured in a fire?"

"No," the Beast whispered. "It was not a fire. Please, Dean, don't ask me questions. You must be tired. You were out in the snow all day. Go to bed."

Dean stood reluctantly and started to trudge away. He stopped and turned back. "Where do you sleep?"

"Alone," said the Beast.

***

In the morning the snow was falling too hard to go outside, so Dean, once he had eaten, went past every door in the manor and looked into every room where the door opened. He did not see the Beast in any of them, and by midmorning he was so frustrated he wanted to stand in the gallery and shout for him until he appeared.

Instead he chose a door at the far end of the hall and cast an opening spell. He had picked many locks in his life, and this one opened easily under his careful hands. He pushed the door open and peered into the room. It was gloomy, its curtains were drawn, and it smelled of dust. There was furniture covered with sheets, but otherwise it was empty. 

He closed that door and tried another. All were dusty, empty and gloomy, and no door resisted his simple magic. He went up to the third floor and began the same routine down the row of doors.

He opened one of the last doors and peered inside. As with the others, sheets covered the furniture, but unlike the others one curtain was slightly pulled back to reveal the thickly falling snow outside. The wood floor was bare and the dust showed signs of someone who had paced back and forth many times. At the end of the room was a large dressmaker's dummy, which seemed out of place given the tattered richness of the room. Dean approached the dummy, hoping to find some kind of clue about Castiel Messenger in the clothes left behind, when suddenly the dummy turned and shouted, horrified, "Dean!"

Dean stopped, too shocked too speak. It was no dressmaker's dummy. It was the Beast without his cloak, and he looked like no man Dean had ever seen. He was taller than Dean had thought, now that he stood up straight, and his skin was as grey as stone. He wore a shapeless sack made of roughly-woven linen, which fell to just below his knees and revealed his jutting ribcage and collar bones. A pair of wings spread out from each shoulder as Dean watched, then another from his waist. His wings were black as night and at least as wide as he was tall. He had four eyes, two where men had them and another pair above, and both pairs were blue as a summer sky. His ears were long and pointed. His feet were like a man's but his hands curled and his middle fingers were fused together, twisting back on themselves. His nails on both hands and feet were long and thick as claws.

"Don't look at me!" the Beast cried, throwing up his hands before his face, and he crouched as if trying to make himself smaller. "Get out of here!"

Every nerve in Dean's body screamed to run away from this creature. Instead he took a resolute step forward, and then another and another, until he stood in front of the Beast's trembling body. He took hold of the Beast's hands and the Beast gasped as Dean gently removed them from his face.

"Please don't look at me," the Beast whispered.

"I can't help it," Dean said. He took a deep breath as he gazed into the Beast's eyes, at his face. "You're beautiful."

"Don't mock me."

"I'm not. You are terrifying but you are beautiful. You're like nothing I've ever seen."

"Leave me," the Beast whispered and turned his face away, his eyes closing. "I should send you away for this."

"But you won't," said Dean as he touched the Beast's cheek. His skin was smooth and cool. "You've been alone for years because of this, haven't you? And now here I am, and you like me, and I like you, and I'm not afraid of you. Not even like this."

The Beast still would not look at him and he said again, "Go."

"I'm not leaving you," Dean said, but left the room nonetheless.

***

The Beast did not join him at supper, and Dean, when he went to his room to sleep, thought all the gifts he'd been given might be gone. They were not, however, so Dean put on his nightshirt and got into bed.

He couldn't sleep, though, and finally got up again and put his clothes back on. He wanted the Beast. He wanted to hear his voice and touch that smooth, otherworldly skin once more. 

Torches lit themselves as he walked through the gallery and down the staircase, and the massive front doors flung themselves open for him. Dean went through the doors and followed the drive to the stables where, he was not surprised to see, more torches were lit.

He found the Beast in a stall with the great black horse, wrapped in his big black cloak. He sat hunched forward with his arms on his knees, and the horse nudged against him as if to comfort him.

Dean said quietly, "Blackie's not afraid of you."

"His name is Goliath."

"Of course it is." Dean slid down the stall wall to sit beside the Beast.

"I learned to ride on his back." The Beast held Goliath's muzzle. "I think I must smell the same."

"My father has one like him. His name is Creedence."

"That's a strange name."

"Sometimes my father is a strange fellow." He watched the Beast as he slowly stroked Goliath's long nose. He said softly, ""What happened? Were you born this way?"

"No," the Beast whispered. "I was born a man, just like you. I was even called beautiful. I was the cherished son of an old family, and I would have nothing around me that was not also pleasing to my sight."

He fell silent. 

"Tell me," Dean said. "This is the story of what happened to Castiel Messenger, isn't it? He's not dead, he's you."

The Beast turned his head at last to look at Dean. "How do you know that name?"

"That's why my father came to this manor in the first place. The townspeople think a demon killed you."

"No demon," the Beast murmured. "Only me, as hideous as any demon."

"You're not hideous," said Dean. "Tell me the story."

The Beast said slowly, "After my parents died, I went through their money as if it were water. I gambled. I threw parties that lasted for weeks. I gave my lovers gifts that far outstripped their devotion. People who claimed to be my friends came to eat my food and drink my wine, and took my money at cards and dice without a second thought.

"I didn't care, so long as I was surrounded by flattery and beauty and amusements.

"Then one day, as it was raining, an old woman came to my door and begged to be allowed to rest her feet in my kitchen and perhaps have a crust of bread to eat. She was so gnarled and bent I refused her. I told her I would have no creature as repulsive as she in my house."

He stopped and hid his face as if ashamed. Dean hesitated and then placed a hand on his back. After a few minutes the Beast removed his hands from his face and continued, "Before my eyes she transformed from a wrinkled crone into a beautiful and terrible fairy, and I knew, though I'd never seen her, she was the fairy who guards my family. She called me by name and said I was a disgrace to my family name, that no son of my family had ever been so selfish. She cursed me, saying that until someone came to me freely and stayed for love, my form would be as ugly as my heart.

"She transformed me. It was the most painful experience I have ever had. My hands . . . my back . . ." He held his hands out in front of him. "My face. I could hardly breathe throughout. I thought I would die. And then when it was over . . . I was this creature.

"My guests, my lover, my servants, they all fled in terror. I used some of the magical objects in my family's possession to build the walls around the estate so that no one would look at me, and this same magic has kept the estate running and food on my table, and when people came to rob my house or hunt me I used the magic to take away their memory of what they found.

"When your father came, I saw he was a hunter and I knew he would not be afraid. He would not run from me. I hoped he might want to stay a while, that perhaps we could speak together of interesting places and people -- but then he tried to take a precious amulet and I . . . I lost my temper."

"That was for me," Dean said softly. "He said it resembles an amulet I had when I was young that I lost. It was to be a gift for me."

The Beast murmured, "Your father has a generous heart."

"Sometimes."

The Beast said softly, "And then you came to take his place. The most beautiful boy I've ever seen. Not only that, you've brought life to this house, with your energy and your games and your laughter and your music. Don't leave me, Dean. Please don't leave me."

"I won't," Dean vowed. He stood and patted Goliath's nose, and then held out his hand to the Beast. He said softly, "Beast, will you share your bed with me?"

The Beast placed his hands in Dean's and laboriously stood. "Yes, Dean," he said, and for the first time his voice held a note of hope.

***

Dean started to light a lamp, but the Beast said quickly, "No. No light." 

"But I want to see you," Dean said.

The Beast turned his head away, and then slowly, reluctantly, removed his cloak and let it drop. His eyes shone in the darkness like stars. Dean lit the lamp and put it by the bedside, then quickly removed his clothes and helped the Beast remove his linen shift. "Come on," Dean whispered and pulled him to the bed.

The Beast groaned as if in pain and climbed into bed beside him. Dean covered him over and wound his arms around him with a muttered, "I'll keep you warm." Dean ran his fingertips over his cheeks and forehead and neck, even when the Beast whimpered and hid his face in the curve of Dean's shoulder. "Do you believe me when I say you're beautiful?" Dean said, and the Beast shook his head. "Try," Dean said. "Try to believe me."

"I can't," the Beast murmured. "Please blow out the lamp. I can't stand it when you look at me."

"But I like looking at you."

"Why aren't you afraid? I'm a monster."

Dean smiled at him. "Because I'm a hunter, and I know what monsters look like. More than that, I know what they do. Monsters maim and kill and slaughter. While you used magic to protect yourself from the people you knew would hunt you." The Beast's eyes finally met his. "You sat in a dark room so I wouldn't be afraid of you, and watched me play in the snow through a window."

The Beast looked away again and sighed.

"Monsters sometimes have human faces," Dean said. "Stands to reason the opposite could be true."

"So you do think I'm a monster."

Dean closed his eyes. "I think it's going to be very hard to walk in the town square holding your hand." He slid his hand down the Beast's arm and lifted the Beast's hand. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes. It aches when it's cold."

"And your feet? Do they hurt?"

"Yes. They ache. And my wings hurt when they come out, and they're heavy. And sometimes my eyes ache as if I've been reading in the dark." 

"And it hurts to speak," Dean said. "I can tell."

"Yes."

"But you do anyway. You talk all the time."

"I have nothing to give but stories." He exhaled slowly and laid his arm over Dean's waist, his head on Dean's shoulder.

"You've given me so much more than that," Dean whispered and kissed his forehead, just above his second set of eyes.

***

The Beast did not take Dean that night, nor the next, nor any night that followed. They slept side by side like brothers, sometimes holding each other close, sometimes not touching at all. Dean wished he understood why: he made no secret that he desired the Beast, that he found nothing repulsive about his skin or his hands or any aspect of his body.

The weeks passed. The Beast watched Dean eat, slept at his side, limped alongside him as they went for short walks around the property. And they talked, how much they talked, Dean told him his stories about werewolves and vampires and wicked fae, and the Beast told him about his family, their fortunes and times.

Once upon a time they had been nothing more than peasants, he said, and then one of his ancestors was loved by a good fairy. She gave him gifts, riches beyond imagination, and taught him to use magic. This knowledge was passed down from son to son, and while in his other life the Beast had scorned this knowledge he found it invaluable now. All the fairy had asked in return, from her lover and from the children that followed, was to share their good fortune with those in need.

"This is where I failed," he said and hung his head, and Dean held him and comforted him.

Sometimes Dean still dreamed of the beautiful man, but they said little to each other now. In his dreams now, he kissed the beautiful man, touched his body, said "yes" again and again as he was taken and used and left sated.

Sometimes in the morning the sheets bore evidence of his dreams. The Beast said nothing about this.

***

After the year turned, Dean said to the Beast, "It's my birthday today."

"How old are you today?"

"I'm nineteen."

"You will always be so very young to me," the Beast said softly. "What do you desire for a gift?"

"Nothing," Dean said and kissed the Beast's shoulder. "I have everything I want and more."

"But it's customary. What do you wish for? There must be something."

"Well, a wish is different than a gift. I wish . . ." He lay his head down to think. "I wish I could see Sam. That's what I want most."

"You love him most?"

"I love him a lot," Dean said. "He's just always been there, every day since I was four years old. I've looked after him since I was old enough to be left alone with him." He paused, smiling to himself. "It's kind of weird being away from him, actually. It wasn't too long ago that we were still sharing a bed like babies."

The Beast was quiet. "Out of all the things you could have asked for, that is something I can give you."

Dean sat up. "You can? Really? You can take me to him?"

"Not exactly," the Beast said and got out of bed more slowly and carefully. "But I have a way for you to see him. Get dressed. I'll show you."

Dean threw on his clothes and helped the Beast with his -- the cloak was the most important thing, he felt the cold keenly -- and the Beast took him up to the third floor and one of the locked rooms. Inside, he uncovered and unlocked a trunk, knelt in front of it and took out items Dean recognized: talismans and amulets and charms, centuries' worth of powerful magic, things hunters would die to possess.

He gave Dean a round mirror. "Think of him," the Beast said softly. "Think of him with all your heart."

Dean closed his eyes and thought of Sam. He thought of his weight and scent as a baby, of the roly-poly little boy who used to run after him, of the way they had played and tumbled together like puppies. He thought of Sam as the young man he was becoming, his legs long as fence posts and his mind so sharp and clear. Show me Sam, he thought, and when he opened his eyes he could see Sam in the mirror.

He almost dropped the mirror, because Sam was sewing up a wound in John's leg as blood gushed, making the needle slippery. "Father," Dean gasped and looked up at the Beast with despair. "He's dying."

"Do you wish to go to him?"

"Yes, God, please," Dean said, his eyes stinging. "I can't let my father die."

The Beast pushed aside various artifacts until he found a particular one: a tiny amulet of a head, strung on a leather cord. He hung it around Dean's neck. "Hold it in your right hand and think of where you want to be," he said slowly, and then put the mirror in Dean's other hand. "Come back to me soon."

Dean looked at him, then took hold of the Beast's head and kissed him. "I'll be back soon," he said and took a step back, grasped the amulet and thought, Take me to my family.

***

When he opened his eyes again he was in a tiny cabin, somewhere it was bitingly cold, and Sam stared at him with his mouth open. "Dean?"

"Hi," Dean said and knelt at John's side. "Hi, Father. Let me do that, Sam." He took the curved needle and pinched the wound closed.

"Dean," John whispered and touched his hair. "You're alive."

"I'll tell you all about it later," Dean promised. "First let's get you fixed." He smiled reassuringly at John and set about stitching the wound closed.

Once this was done and John was made comfortable, John said, clasping Dean's hand, "Don't disappear while I'm sleeping."

"I'll be here," Dean said. He kissed his father and once he slept, washed the blood from his hands in the wash basin. He and Sam sat close to each other on the other side of the fireplace and spoke in low voices to keep from waking John.

"It was a ghost," Sam whispered. "It's been killing people for weeks with the same knife it was killed with. It screamed so loud, Dean, but Father fought it off and I burned the bones. It was buried in the walls of its house. It was a woman." He stopped and wrapped his arms around his folded legs. "Her husband killed her because he thought she was unfaithful."

"Was she?"

"I don't think so. I think she wouldn't have been so angry if she had been."

"I'm glad you got it, Sammy."

Sam frowned and nodded. "I wasn't fast enough. If I'd been faster it wouldn't have hurt Father." Dean put his arm around Sam and hugged him, and Sam said against his shoulder, "I missed you."

"I missed you too."

"You've been a prisoner at that manor this whole time?" Sam whispered.

"Yeah. It's been pretty good, actually. Not really a prison, just isolated. And the person who lives in it, he's not a demon. He's cursed. He's actually really great. He takes care of me and we talk about everything, and I . . ." He stopped and bit his lip. "I want to stay with him forever."

"And be away from us," Sam said.

"Everybody does it eventually," said Dean. "Everybody leaves their family someday, and goes off to make their own."

"You want to make a family with this thi -- creature?"

Dean nodded slowly and looked at the fire. "I think I already have."

Sam shook his head, but smiled at him. "Leave it to you to find some other way than marrying a bar wench and having lots of fat babies."

"You can have the fat babies. I'll take my Beast." He took off his coat and laid it over Sam. "Get some sleep. I'll take first watch."

Sam lay down on the floor and curled his legs as much as he could under Dean's coat. "I'm glad you're back, Dean," he whispered before closing his eyes.

***

John was better by the next evening, able to sit up and eat more than water and broth. He frowned as he listened to Dean's story, and questioned him on many points: he was being taken of? Eating enough? He wasn't forced to do anything he didn't want to? The magic in the house felt benign?

Yes, Dean said to everything. Yes, he was happy.

Finally John stopped asking questions and just studied his son, thoughtful. "This isn't the life I imagined for you, Dean."

"It isn't the life I imagined for myself, either," said Dean. "But it's the life I want."

"It'll be easier than hunting."

"I'll probably get soft and fat," said Dean and poked himself in the stomach as he grinned at his father.

John didn't smile back. "Do you love him, son?"

Dean poked himself a few more times before he answered. "All I know is I'm happy."

"That's a good start," said John.

***

Looking after Sam and John kept Dean busy. They had a little money but the nearest town was half a day's ride away, so Dean hunted -- actually hunting, not demon-hunting -- to keep them fed. He chopped wood and fetched water, helped Sam repair torn clothes and fell into bed at night exhausted. He would think, as he lay in bed, that he ought to check on the Beast but swore to himself he would do it in the morning.

Every morning he forgot. There was so much to do.

And then one morning he realized he had been gone for a week and his father and brother were talking of moving on to the next job, and he had to make a choice: go back to the Beast, or stay with his family. He took the mirror out of the bag where he'd put it for safekeeping and turned it over in his hands, and thought about what he'd said to Sam -- that the Beast was his family now. He wondered if that was really true.

He thought, Show me the Beast, with all his heart.

The glass in the mirror wavered, and then cleared to show him the snowy garden at the manor. Dean was glad to see that the Beast was getting outside even without him, and peered at the glass to see where the Beast was. The kitchen garden? Maybe getting flowers from the hothouse to cheer his dinner table?

His eyes widened when he realized that the dark shape on the garden path was not a shadow but the Beast himself. "Beast," he whispered, and started up to grab his jacket. "Father, Sam," he shouted. "I have to go. I have to go right now."

Sam ran into the cabin. "You're leaving?"

"The Beast is ill. He may be hurt. I have to go." He hugged Sam tight, and then John as well, who'd followed Sam inside. "I love you. Goodbye."

"Go carefully," said John.

Dean nodded, grasped his amulet and said, "Take me to the Beast."

***

In a moment he was in the familiar gardens. Snow covered everything: the hedges, the garden walls, the steps that led up to the house, the prone body of the Beast.

Dean knelt on the snow and shook the Beast. "Beast," he gasped, "please, Beast, I'm sorry I left you for so long. I'm back now. I'm back and I'll never leave you again. Please wake up. Please, Beast."

The Beast didn't move. His smooth grey skin was cold.

"Please," Dean wept, though he knew it was too late. He had left the Beast for too long, his poor lonely creature, and the Beast had wandered out into the cold to die. "I'm so sorry," Dean whispered and kissed his mouth. "I love you." His tears fell on the Beast's face as he gathered the poor cold body into his arms.

A light shone suddenly on the dark garden path and Dean looked up, holding the Beast to him protectively. Within the light stood a woman, beautiful and terrible at once like a goddess. She looked at Dean tenderly, and then down at the Beast. She reached out and touched the Beast's face.

Suddenly the Beast gasped, his body arching as he inhaled. Dean released him and scrambled away as the light surrounding the woman enveloped the Beast and lifted his limp body. Away fell his black cloak -- away fell the black feathers of his heavy wings -- away fell the twisted tendons that had kept his hands and feet in such crippling pain. His extra eyes disappeared. His ears smoothed into round shell-like shapes. His skin blushed from grey to the color of warm flesh.

The light placed the Beast -- the man -- on his feet. He opened his eyes.

The woman took hold of his face. She said gently, "Remember this lesson."

"Yes, Grandmother," he said, wide-eyed. She smiled at him, smiled on Dean, and then disappeared.

Dean watched all of this, his own eyes wide. He looked at the man, and it didn't surprise him, not really, that he looked exactly like the beautiful man in his dreams. "Castiel Messenger?" he gasped.

"Yes."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Dean said and gathered up the cloak to wrap around Castiel's naked body. "I'm Dean. And I love you."

"I know who you are," Castiel said, looking stunned, and they fell on each other's necks, weeping and laughing.

***

Everyone in the town remarked how lovely it was to see that Castiel Messenger had returned home and was carrying on the legacy of his family of being both generous to the needy and shrewd in matters of business. The factory was reactivated, boarded-up shops were opened, land that had lain fallow was rented out to any family willing to work it. While the days of month-long house parties were long gone, the manor was now open to all family and friends, and those in need knew they could turn to the Messenger manor for help.

Dean Winchester, the townspeople said, was the best thing to happen to Castiel Messenger.

Whenever he heard this, Dean had to smile. If he was the best thing to Castiel, Castiel was certainly the best thing to happen to him. Other branches of the Messenger family were in touch, which meant that suddenly Dean had cousins, in-laws, children to spoil. It meant, too, that Sam and John always had a safe place to come when they needed a rest from hunting, and the Messenger library and collection of magic was at their disposal.

And he had a lover who was beautiful and kind. If he missed Castiel's former shape, his enormous wings and smooth grey skin, he never said.

They kept one tradition over from the former days. Every night at bedtime, Castiel told Dean a story. 

They always had happy endings.

End.


End file.
